


A Beat Without A Melody

by elizzleonizzle



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Connor Deserves Happiness, Connor Needs A Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Evan is trying, I should deal with my emotions in a healthy way, I stole this title from Hamilton fight me, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Not Eating, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, This is very cheesy and cliché but I don’t know how to express myself or my emotions I’m sorry, emotional breakdowns, oops im venting, possible triggers lie ahead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 15:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11694243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizzleonizzle/pseuds/elizzleonizzle
Summary: Then his sight cleared up, and he was –very clearly- shown the face of Evan Hansen. His eyes were red and there were tear streaks on his face and his hair was a mess and he was pale and shaky but he was smiling at Connor like he didn’t look like death itself had come to visit and he was holding Connor’s head in his hand and stroking his cheek with his thumb while whispering, “It’s okay, it’ll be okay, I’m right here,” in a quivering voice, and it was right then that Connor realized: he was still very much alive.





	A Beat Without A Melody

**Author's Note:**

> One day I'll deal with my emotions in a normal, healthy way...
> 
> But today is not that day
> 
>  
> 
> (TW: Mentions of self-harm, not eating to an unhealthy extent but it's not anorexia, mentions of Suicide, Suicide attempts, emotional breakdowns, homophobic slurs.)

The first thing that came to him was the noise. It wasn’t very clear, his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, but he could make out the steady beep of a heart monitor.

Then the smell. The scent of cleaning supplies and sterile machines was overwhelming. He almost gagged but found there was a tube in his mouth traveling down his throat. Blinking blearily, Connor tried pulling the tube out but was stopped by a pair of hands taking his in their own.

Then his sight cleared up, and he was –very clearly- shown the face of Evan Hansen. His eyes were red and there were tear streaks on his face and his hair was a mess and he was pale and shaky but he was smiling at Connor like he didn’t look like death itself had come to visit and he was holding Connor’s head in his hand and stroking his cheek with his thumb while whispering, “It’s okay, it’ll be okay, I’m right here,” in a quivering voice, and it was right then that Connor realized: he was still very much alive.

 

_(Five Months Earlier)_

 

He couldn’t keep up this charade forever. Someone was going to notice. People already noticed the abundant amount of hair ties he wore on his wrists and that he was never seen without his hoodie. But aside from his continuous drug usage, they didn’t know anything.

He planned on keeping it that way.

Something was wrong with him, there was no denying it. He couldn’t go a day without screaming at something or someone, and then curl up and want to cry two seconds later. He couldn’t go a day without regretting everything. He couldn’t go a day without hating himself. He couldn’t go a day without wanting to die.

 

* * *

 

 

_Worthless._

Connor tugged on his hoodie string as he stood in the checkout line, his basket filled groceries.

_Evan only asked you to go to the store so he could be rid of you for a while._

Connor tapped his foot and _scratchscratchscratched_ the back of his hand. Why wasn’t this line moving faster? He had food to buy; Things to do.

_You’re so selfish. There are people in third world countries that can’t access food. What makes you think you deserve it any more than them?_

The _scratchscratchscratching_ on the back of his hand become more rapid, it was starting to sting. He should probably stop, he needed to—

“Sir, can I help you?”

Connor looked around and saw that he was in the front of the line, and there were people behind him looking angry and impatient. In front of him was the teenaged cashier, giving him a worried smile, her eyes flooding with concern. How long had he been standing there? He a felt his face flush and then he was shoving the basket into the girl’s arms and he was running out of the store.

He ran until he collapsed on that weird patch of grass next to the Walmart where no one could see him.

And he cried.

_You can’t even buy food right. God, what is wrong with you?_

“Everything,” Connor mumbled miserably.

He returned home with red eyes, a bleeding hand, and no groceries.

 

* * *

 

 

That night, Connor lay silently in bed while Evan slept soundly next to him. He watched the rise and fall of Evan’s chest, jealous of how he could just fall asleep. Even when Connor was exhausted he just…couldn’t sleep. It was infuriating. He was so tired but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t sleep.

Insomnia was a bitch.

Connor groaned. He needed a hit, but he had promised Evan he wouldn’t smoke in the apartment. But he needed to relieve his frustration, at himself and with the world in general.

Connor then found himself locked in the bathroom with a knife held against his wrist.

_Worthless._

 

* * *

 

 

Evan and Connor had made a promise to each other.  They made a pact that whenever one of them was feeling like they were beginning of senior year, they would tell the other. This system had worked well in the past; Evan had admitted to climbing a tree and considering letting go, and Connor had confessed of his self-harm habits and _almost_ getting up in the middle of the night to hang himself from the ceiling fan, but he couldn’t because he was _too tired_.  Whenever a “confession” happened, it usually ended with tears (mostly from the admitter, occasionally from the admitee), takeout food (they were becoming acquainted with the delivery boy from the Chinese place down the street), and staying up watching movies until 4 am (they were slowly making their way through all of the Disney movies Evan owned, which was practically all of them).

But now, looking back at his thoughts and feelings and actions, Connor was embarrassed. It was stupid. Everything he thought or felt was stupid. It wasn’t worth bothering Evan with.

So he wouldn’t bother Evan with it.

 

* * *

 

 

Connor built a wall around himself.

It was tall and thick, and there was no way in.

Or out.

It was just him with the Voice.

_Worthless._

_Waste of space._

_Ungrateful._

_Waste of air._

_Pathetic._

_Waste of food._

_Purposeless._

_Waste of time._

_Annoying._

_Waste of human life._

_Better off dead._

_Waste of money._

_Why are you here?_

_Waste of love._

_No one cares._

_Why would they?_

_You can’t do anything right._

_Better off dead._

The voice flooded him until Connor grew so cold; the water held inside him froze over.

And it stayed that way for months.

 

* * *

 

 

Connor stood at the edge of the bridge.

This was it.

He took a shaky breath.

He shouldn’t be scared. He had been planning this for days, and he was never scared then. He had his note and everything ready to go. And yet… _And yet…_

And yet, his thoughts kept turning to Evan, and how he bought that stupid bonsai tree and named it “Connor Jr.” and how that morning he had surprised Connor with pancakes and the way his nose crinkled when he laughed and how he could quote every Disney movie forward and back and how he liked to cuddle under a blanket when it rained and how now that he thought about it some more, Connor wasn’t quite sure he was willing to give that up just yet.

So he climbed back down and as he walked home, he almost considered breaking down the wall.

Almost.

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you okay?”

The question caught him completely off guard. He turned from his position in the doorframe and gave Evan a questioning look.

“What?”

Evan took a breath, his fingers picking at the edge of his shirt. “I mean you’ve been kind of—I mean you’ve always sort’ve been—what I’m trying to say is that y-you seem a bit…different, lately.”

Connor stared.

“I mean I’ve noticed over the past few weeks that you’ve been withdrawing yourself a lot more, a-and you aren’t really eating that much, and I-I just want you to know that if you ever need to talk, I’m right here. I promised.”

Silence filled the room, and the seconds felt like years. Connor needed to say something, anything. This was his boyfriend, dammit; he wasn’t going to do this to poor, awkward Evan.

But before he even knew what he was doing, Connor’s eyes began watering and his breath hitched and he collapsed onto the ground and he was crying like a small child wanting their mother.

Then Evan was instantly by his side and he was holding him and pushing his hair back and whispering to him words Connor couldn’t hear over his own gross sobbing. The next thing he knew he was telling Evan everything. From his cutting to the voice in his head, to his almost-attempt. Evan stayed silent throughout Connor’s ramble, letting the water unfreeze, letting him tear down the wall he had built and letting the water he had been holding back rush out until he was dry.

 

* * *

 

 

A therapist. He was going to a therapist. He had been given a list of recommended doctors and had randomly picked a name. He didn’t even look at the information, he just looked for a name he liked and chose. Was he worried about all the possible outcomes? Yes and no. On one hand, now that he had given Evan his confession, he wanted to get better; he wanted to be fixed. But on the other hand, it couldn’t get any worse, right?

Truth be told, just the word “Therapy” made him feel uncomfortable. Therapy was meant for people who went through horrible things. Soldiers come home from war; people who have witnessed traumatic things (fires, murders, Connor doesn’t have examples prepared at the moment). He was just a royally messed up person who didn’t deserve any of this.

_Worthless._

 

* * *

 

 

Connor sat stiffly on the couch, his fingernails picked at a loose piece of string on his jeans. This felt awkward. He didn’t want to be here, this felt wrong. He knew he was supposed to be getting better but if this was what it took—

“So, tell me about yourself.”

That caught Connor off guard. Why was she asking this? Wasn’t he here to tell her all the batshit crazy thoughts he had been having and for her to give him some drugs and for them to part their merry ways.

He found himself telling her anyway.

He didn’t talk about the past few months, but he did tell her about his parents and Zoe and his childhood (how cliché, he thought bitterly) and about Evan and how they had moved into a new apartment a few months ago, and how they were thinking about getting a cat (their landlord was allergic to dogs, but was strangely fine with cats) and how Evan was helping him look for a job and Evan’s house plants and the stupid names he gave them and how Connor acted like it was dumb but he secretly thought it was adorable but he would never say that because he had a reputation to uphold.

He found himself talking about Evan a lot.

Connor left that appointment with mixed feelings. On one hand, it felt nice to just talk without worrying about the past few months being mentioned –talking with Evan recently felt like walking on eggshells, both of them not wanting to say anything that might trigger the other- but on the other hand, he didn’t feel like he had accomplished what he wanted to; he didn’t come to the conclusion that he felt he needed. Part of him wanted to confide in Evan, but the voice in his head was telling him that was such a stupid thing to do because _obviously_ , Evan didn’t really care. He had his own problems to deal with.

Connor went back home, his mind fighting with itself over this new development, only to remember that Evan was away for the weekend visiting Heidi. There was a note taped to the counter reminding Connor that there were leftovers in the fridge and if he didn’t want to eat 4-day-old chili and just wanted to order a pizza that was fine too. More chili for Evan ( :D ).

Connor crumpled up the note and headed toward the bedroom, maneuvering himself around the dirty clothes he had yet to put in the laundry.

He didn’t eat dinner that night.

 

* * *

 

 

He didn’t eat breakfast either.

 

* * *

 

“Maybe I should start writing letters to myself,” Connor spoke to Connor Jr. as he searched for job applications. Evan seemed to be getting even more anxious about money than he already was and Connor knew that he needed to start pulling his weight. So that’s what he did all day, sitting on his laptop or scanning the newspaper for jobs with a decent pay rate. He had lost count of the number of applications he had sent in and he had actually gotten an interview, but they never got back to him.

Connor huffed. He had been at this for at least a couple hours now, he deserved a break. He ended up mindlessly browsing the internet, half-heartedly scrolling through Buzzfeed articles and Googling random, dumb questions that came to mind.

_Why does my boyfriend look like that guy from Pitch Perfect?_

_If Jesus can walk on water, can He swim on land?_

_Where do socks go when they’re lost in the dryer?_

_How long does it take to drown an ant?_

_Are aliens real?_

Which seemed to contradict the IQ scores from that test his parents made him take in the first grade, which they continually reminded him of until they realized that a test he took in the first-fucking-grade didn’t matter to him and they gave up, but whatever. It was fine.

Just another thing that was wrong with him.

_Worthless._

 

* * *

 

 

You would think that seven meetings with his therapist would make Connor comfortable in her office, but you would be wrong.

He still sat stiffly on the couch.

He still hesitated when he answered her questions.

And he still felt sick to his stomach whenever she tried to get him to open up about those past few months. His wall was starting to build up.

He thought he was becoming surprisingly good at changing the topic, but she always managed to bring it back to her question.

_How are you feeling today?_

Fine. (He wanted to drive his car off the bridge.)

_How often would you say you feel like that?_

A good amount. (Every fucking day.)

_Would you say your childhood had anything to do with the way you feel now?_

Perhaps. (Goddammit have you not been paying attention?)

He could run for president the way he was answering-but-also-not-answering these questions.

But then she asked a question that made Connor pause. The words died in his throat when he attempted to give a smooth reply so they could move on from that.

But apparently, the universe couldn’t let that happen.

“Connor, have you ever thought about hurting or killing yourself?”

Wasn’t that the whole reason I came here? He wanted to scream, but the words died in his throat and the cuts on his wrists and arms felt like they were burning and the scabs from that time at the store that were probably going to scar itched like crazy and his head was making a funny buzzing noise and was it just him or was the room getting smaller? But he couldn’t say anything because then they would send him packing to a mental asylum and then Evan would be so disappointed and so would his mom and Zoe because he had promised them that he was _trying_ so hard to get better but he wasn’t and then Evan would obviously break up with him because who would want to be with someone like him and—

“Connor, I need you to breathe for me.”

Had he not been breathing? He didn’t notice. He didn’t really care all that much either, to be honest.

Was this what Evan felt like all the time? Like every situation had a horribly negative outcome and the outcome was always, always going to be terrible?

If so, he had a newfound respect for his boyfriend.

 

* * *

 

 

Connor exited the building, what had happened after he had that almost-but-not-quite panic attack felt like a blur. Reassurances and tissues (were there tears? How could he remember clutching a box of Kleenex but not tears running down his face?) Mumbled out apologies and a card with a date written on it for a next appointment (Connor wasn’t sure he _wanted_ a next appointment) felt like they had all been thrown haphazardly into a blender and poured back into his mess of a brain.

This was too much.

All of it.

Just.

All of this was too much. He couldn’t do this anymore. He didn’t _want_ to do this anymore. He wanted this to end.

So why didn’t he end it himself?

The thought came abruptly, forcing away the mush of thoughts that had been clouding Connor’s head previously, and it sat in front of him as if it had been an answer to a simple math worksheet as if it was the obvious answer to a problem he had spent too long on trying to solve.

And he was done trying to solve this problem.

 

* * *

 

 

So that was it, huh.

Just, take the pills and that was that.

It was supposed to be painless, and quick. It should be easy.

He had a note, addressed to Evan. A note explaining _why_ because Evan at least deserved _that_.

Connor gripped the pill bottle tighter. This was going to destroy Evan…But Evan was better off without him. That much he was certain of.

 _Worthless_ , the Voice whispered.

_Ungrateful._

_Pathetic._

_Faggot._

_Better off dead._

_Better off dead._

**_BETTER OFF DEAD!_ **

 

* * *

 

 

So here he was.

Trapped in a hospital because he couldn’t do anything right, not even kill himself. Trapped with his thoughts, the Voice whispering in his ear and he was alone.

Well, no, that was a lie. He wasn’t alone.

Evan was there.

Of course, he was there, he was always there.

_Ungrateful of all the love that they waste on you._

Connor didn’t deserve him, he truly didn’t. The first words out of his mouth were, “I’m sorry.” Then Connor started crying and Evan started crying and Connor had pulled himself into an upward sitting position and tugged Evan closer until Connor had his scarred arms wrapped around Evan’s polo and his face was buried into Evan’s shoulder and he wanted to pull Evan onto the bed for a good, proper cuddle because Connor was so _cold_ and Evan was so _warm_. He was warm like the sun and he always smelled like trees and he was too good for someone as broken and messed up as Connor.

Evan began rubbing circles onto Connor’s back and began whispering things into his ear: _I love you so much, Things will be okay_ and something that sounded like a lullaby, but he wasn’t complaining. Connor thought he heard a nurse say something but he couldn’t hear over Evan and his own ugly crying.

He didn’t care what that nurse had to say anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

Connor was in the hospital for two weeks before they released him. Part of him felt he should stay longer, hell, stay forever, but he also wanted to sleep in his own bed, and he wanted to cuddle with Evan without tubes and monitors and people constantly watching him and feeling like he was trapped, because the starch-white walls of the physic ward feel more like a prison than a place for recovery.

But now he’s home and that’s all that matters. Connor immediately headed toward their bedroom and pulled Evan down onto their shared bed. No words were spoken as they held each other, but a mutual understanding filled the room.

Not yet, not now.

But soon.

 

* * *

 

 

Connor looked up from the piece of grass he had been staring at. Evan sat across from him on the other side of the picnic table they had claimed at the park. Connor really didn’t want to be here, but he felt so awful about doing nothing but lying around all the time, that when Evan suggested eating lunch at the local park, Connor ended up guilt-tripping himself into going. He wasn’t even hungry. He never was. The scars on his arms and wrists were burning and the overwhelming urge to scratchscratchscratch at the back of his hand filled him and he could feel the judgmental eyes of passerbyers are burning into the back of his skull and it makes him want to vomit and…Evan looked up, caught Connor’s gaze, and he smiled.

And then Connor felt a small - tiny - bubble of warmth fill his chest and pop and suddenly the scars on his arms and wrists weren’t burning as much and the urge to _scratchscratchscratch_ the back of his hands died down, and he didn’t feel sick and he felt…Connor couldn’t really figure out what he felt, but it felt nice, he liked this feeling.

 

* * *

 

 

And later that night, as Connor felt Evan press against his back as they lay in their shared bed, he realized that for the moment, he was okay.

And in that moment, that was all that was important.

**Author's Note:**

> Coherent writing style? Don't know her.


End file.
